


38. I'm just tired.

by KittenKin



Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Warning for boys not talking about their feelings unless they sharpen them first and then throw them as hard as they can.Hic sunt monstra.This probably needs a sequel where they go to rubberducking therapy and begin a healthy relationship.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Drabble Prompt Fills [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605655
Comments: 8
Kudos: 59





	38. I'm just tired.

“I don’t see why _I’ve_ got to be the responsible one, the polite one all the time!” John shouted. “God, Sherlock, you’re so fucking _childish_ sometimes!”

He didn’t expect the statement to make such an impact. Or any impact, really. Hadn’t carefully crafted it with damage in mind. Hadn’t had anything in mind except relieving some of the frustration building up in his chest, and if he’d been asked, would have predicted that this latest outburst in this quick-building spat would get ignored or retaliated against, like all the others.

He hadn’t expected Sherlock to flinch and go silent and still. Certainly would never have bet on being agreed with.

“I suppose it’s because I am a child,” Sherlock said quietly, turning away with a tilt to his chin that should have looked haughty. “At least in this.”

John couldn’t come up with anything to say in reply, not even in his mind. It was all heavy silence, within and without.

“People learn from books but grow from experience, isn’t that what you believe?” Sherlock continued, gaze dropped down to the carpet now, hooded eyes tracing slowly around the papers scattered during their row. They hadn’t exactly been having a calm, considerate conversation.

“You were my first. Based on the national average that put me at around fifteen years old. No wonder your ratio of sighs to smiles spiked soon after we became physically intimate. Your expectations, while of course adjusted to account for my eccentricities which you were already familiar with, were still for a more experienced partner.”

“Sherlock, what?” John stammered, but faded off even before he was met with a quick shake of the head. He still had no idea what to say to this; wasn’t even sure yet what it was that he was listening to.

_You see, but don’t observe._

_He heard, but didn’t listen? God, what was Sherlock saying? And how long had he been saying it?_

“There’s a Japanese saying about first loves never bearing fruit. But there was never anyone else, even if I’d thought of the necessity of practice. Only you.”

Sherlock looked up, and the breath froze in John’s lungs. No tears, not from this paragon of haughty emotional repression, but there was a defeated, desolate look that was familiar, and that in itself was horrifying.

“I did try. You made me want to learn all those things I’d dismissed long ago as being boring and plebian. To be better, at least in your estimation. To be worth the time and effort. What I lacked in practical experience I attempted to make up for with research. A proper relationship is supposed to be symbiotic, not parasitic, for example - I at least knew that already - so I gave the soldier danger, and the doctor a patient. And you gave me light, and fire.

Self-sacrifice was a common theme in my readings as well. I don’t know how much more I could have done, there. I sacrificed my happiness for your life, my life for your happiness. I know you believe it was badly done, but surely effort and intent count for more than execution?”

“Sherlock, stop,” John pleaded, but all it did was make the detective’s unnervingly hopeless expression crumple, lamplight striking a glint off of reddening eyes.

“And after everything, you came back, and I thought - I’d hoped - that maybe we’d worn down our edges enough that we’d work this time. I’d lost you once and you’re obviously still you, but it could be counted as being my second relationship, I think. And eighteen and forty-five is still a terrible emotional age gap but what else can I do but hope that every time you leave me, you’ll eventually come back, and someday maybe I won’t seem so inexperienced and stupid in comparison. Someday we’ll be more balanced, and then–”

“Stop, stop stop _stop_ , for God’s sake stop this,” John muttered, throwing himself across the room so that he could speak the command against Sherlock’s lips, blurring the heartbreaking recital into incomprehensible noise. He crowded the other man, their legs scraping and smacking against the coffee table as he herded them who knew where. Somewhere. Anywhere that wasn’t being stuck in that moment.

“You won’t,” Sherlock managed, and John clutched at dark curls harder, implored him to stop right into his mouth. He hissed the “s” against Sherlock’s teeth, and the “p” was just a muffled press of lips. Sherlock fetched up against his chair and buckled into it, air rushing out of his mouth in a soft huff and sighing from the cushions. John followed him down clumsily, falling on him and only taking enough care to ensure he didn’t do the man any damage.

He’d hurt him so much already. Too much. For a lifetime, two lifetimes, ten. Over and over, the both of them, clawing at each other while trying to keep their heads above water.

“It’s fine, you’re fine, you’re better than fine,” John babbled, smearing the words against Sherlock’s skin, trying to impress sentiment directly into his lover with kisses and pressure and body heat. “You’re perfect, right now, right as you are.”

And he wasn’t, but then again neither was John. Not at all, not by a long shot.

There was so much more John could say, too. Should say. Needed to say. That he was just as much a small scared child in his own way; the inner core of him still terrified of asking for tenderness from someone who could seem so cold at times. That he projected neglect and abuse on the other side of every vulnerable moment, because that was the pattern he’d learned in his formative years. That he always held some piece of himself back, even from Sherlock, _especially_ from Sherlock, out of a fear he didn’t even want to name.

That they were both broken and in desperate need of healing. That peace eluded John even during those rare evenings when Sherlock was calm and content despite there being no cases because the guilt never slept. That the things he’d long held against Sherlock should have been held close to his heart instead, with gratitude and awe. That the things he’d done to Sherlock were beyond forgiveness; they required repentance and change.

Even now John wasn’t saying any of these things he knew he needed to say. To share. To confess.

Self-reproach and regret and a fear that it was already too late choked him, and he ended up holding Sherlock tight and burying his own face in long locks. It was too harsh to be a hug, and so desperate it occurred to him that he might actually be cutting off Sherlock’s air supply. But no, there was an arrhythmic beat of hot breaths seeping through his shirt and fingers clawing right back at him, and John took these proofs of life to mean that he needn’t let go just yet.

The thought occurred to him then, that a better man might decide to let go deliberately. And wasn’t that what Sherlock had done? Ripped himself away from the man he loved in order to ensure his safety, supported him to the altar so he could marry the woman he professed to love, sacrificed the precious little he had left so that John could retain his life as it was. Such as it was.

But John wasn’t a better man. He might’ve been the best Sherlock knew, but he wasn’t even sure he was decent.

Exhibit A: He dragged Sherlock out of the chair and into bed.


End file.
